I wonder if you notice how outside colors   blossom into electric cries  when you’re hungry.  light snowstorms swirling  behind pale beach eyelids.  

you’re being photographed  but when she looks at the picture   it’s ghosts.  there’s no woman on the shore just  bones and violets.  

it would be charming if the seasons  loved their way into each other slowly,  bleeding something sweet and pink,  but instead, the sun   presses your back flat into the earth  and freckled dog feet trample you,  your chest a crushed soda can,   you glisten underneath the  outstretched belly of the blue day. 

pointer finger  there’s you and there’s me  and slow motion through the soft black and white foam  can make out two figures-  one with veins I’ve studied carefully   and one with a shape resembling    a picture in my constellations book. 

I can already feel   tomorrow night’s moon   pressing up against me  as noon’s silver shadow  shivers under my hand,  whimpers and backs away   slowly and slumps down below  the skirt of  the stone seawall.